Sherlock Age: 28
Sherlock is playing peacefully, his bow gliding softly across the violin strings. Sometimes it's good to night have a case to work on and to compose music instead. He closes his eyes with pleasure and adds another measure of beautiful notes to his song. He pauses and places the violin in his lap and picks up a pencil to fill in the last few notes on a mangled piece of paper that sits in front of him. He hums a bit, swings the bow in the air and then places his instrument under his chin again. With a few more hummed notes he begins to play again, picking up where he left off. Nothing can break this moment of tranquility, one of the few ever witnessed by anyone, these moments are gold, rare and precious. He smiles, a genuine smile, the first in a few weeks. Sherlock continues to play, sending the notes floating through the air. There's a polite knock at the door, but Sherlock pretends not to hear and keeps playing. The knock persists, getting louder and louder each time it is repeated. Sherlock pauses mid-note to take a moment and think.
"I locked the door yes? Yes. Good." And then resumed his playing like nothing had happened. The knocks cease for a moment, only to be turned into banging. Sherlock's smile widens as he keeps playing, ignoring the banging. Suddenly the door springs open spilling Mycroft and several other people onto the floor.
"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft shouts at him as he stands up and dusts himself off, helping D.I. Lestrade to his feet who in turn helps the rest up. Sherlock stops playing and adds the notes to his composition. He looks up at the group standing in his flat.
"What?" He asks it in such a way that makes the others feel like they're intruding. Mycroft doesn't buy it for one second.
"You know very well what!" Sherlock rolls his eyes and places the violin back under his chin,
"You want me to leave the flat." Lestrade steps forward, glaring at Sherlock,
"We have a case that we need your help with."
"So you bring my brother into it? Here's an idea," he pauses and strums a few strings, "since you've finally get him out of wherever he was before, you get him to solve it for you. I'm in the middle of something unless you couldn't tell." Mycroft gives him a stern look,
"Sherlock."
"Are you dieting, again?" Mycroft glares,
"No."
"That explains it. Now would you all leave? I have some music to compose." It's Lestrade's turn to glare.
"Sherlock-" A man from the back of the group steps forward,
"Are you not going to help us? Do you know how selfish that is?"
"Anderson, step back, you just tagged along. This isn't your fight."
"With all due respect, I think it is. People are dying while this case is open." Anderson turns back to Sherlock, "Just so I've got this right, you don't care about that do you?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow,
"Should I?"
"YES! These are people, actually human people."
"Dull." Mycroft looks positively livid. He wrenches the violin from under Sherlock's chin and breaks it across his knee. The strings make pitiful sounds as their body breaks. The room is silent and everyone looks at Sherlock who is sitting in his chair completely still, every muscle in his body tenses and his eyes flash. Mycroft looks at the mangled instrument in his hands and then at Sherlock. He recognizes that look, the look of loathing, pure hate, and anger on his brother's face. He offers a small smile then turns and races out of the room after dropping the broken violin on the floor. As soon as Mycroft is out of sight Sherlock bolts from his chair and races after him, mouth held tightly closed against verbal assault. Not enough.
"I WILL KILL YOU!" He shouts down the stairs as Mycroft disappears from sight. He rams his hands against the stair rail and angrily makes his way back to his flat where Lestrade and this new bloke Anderson are still standing. Anderson has the nerve to ask,
"Does that mean you're not helping then?" Sherlock spins on the newcomer,
"What do you think?" his voice is dangerous and low. Anderson involuntarily takes a step back,
"I'll take that as a no. You should calm down I think."
"Do you think? I'm not bloody helping Lestrade! Not until you get me a new violin. Get the Hell out of my flat and take this loyal pup with you!" He throws himself into the chair so forcefully it scoots back a few inches and nearly topples over. Sherlock doesn't say a word when the two men and the rest of the group leaves, closing the door behind them.
Several hours later
Lestrade lets himself in, followed by Anderson. He holds out a case to Sherlock who hasn't moved. He's glaring at the wall opposite of him, still.
"Have you got it?" He asks finally, never once taking his eyes off of a particular spot on the wall.
"Here." Lestrade places it at his feet and then backs up. Sherlock's gaze shifts to Anderson and Lestrade,
"Data. Give me data." Lestrade is visibly relived and quickly fills Sherlock in.
"You'll need to go down to Bart's."
"Molly's working tonight." Sherlock gets up and angrily brushes past the pair. At the top of the stairs Sherlock turns to the pair of men, "Anderson is it? I don't want to see you in my flat again."
"Wha-? What did I do?" Sherlock seems to ponder the question a minute,
"I just don't like you." And then he's gone.
"Yeah, he's always like that." Anderson nods and follows Lestrade down the stairs. Two can play at that game.
Sherlock throws open the doors of the morgue, startling Molly. She turns around,
"Sherlock? You alright?" He waves a hand in the air to dismiss the question. "Sherlock?"
"Just show me the bodies Molly." he says, anger dripping off of every word he utters. Molly's eyes widen and she steps back a bit,
"Right. Sorry. Here." She rolls out a table and unzips the black bag. Sherlock seems to realize that he's scared her and looks at her,
"Not your fault. My brother-" he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. "You know what? It doesn't matter. Broke my violin." He glares at the dead body sitting before him. "I hate you. You got my violin broken. I would kill you if you weren't dead already." Molly takes the liberty to back out of the room leaving Sherlock with the dead body. 'Don't get Sherlock Holmes mad' she thought, 'It's not a pretty sight.'